seven-day’s
wonder
flowing
where once
it ebbed
the antic creatures
jump to it again
yesterday lost
tomorrow unreachable
today there is too little time
shoulders to wheels
mills gristed
noses firm against
the grindstones of trade
today there is money to be made
it’s construction
a tower of stone
built brick by brick
by every passing minute
and the blood of the poor
leavened with dried tears
and labour
so counted so eager
so few notice the daylight
the reddening sun
setting inside the heart
reminds them to rest
and be thankful
rest
tomorrow is one more day
A week of poems… The suite, if such it is, runs: friday, thursday, wednesday, tuesday, monday, sunday, saturday. - week…
It ran backwards as time dos when remembered. This was the last. Felt the cold hand of fruitless toil take a grip of me. Those days are spent for me, thankfully, but their memory is there. Now, if my toil is fruitless, it’s a matter of choice.
The quotidien rolls on for most. The world, bemused, rolls beside. Human foibles a source of dismay to it now as they mount like silt and the humans in hot pursuit of so little labour in their vanity.
wonder
flowing
where once
it ebbed
the antic creatures
jump to it again
yesterday lost
tomorrow unreachable
today there is too little time
shoulders to wheels
mills gristed
noses firm against
the grindstones of trade
today there is money to be made
it’s construction
a tower of stone
built brick by brick
by every passing minute
and the blood of the poor
leavened with dried tears
and labour
so counted so eager
so few notice the daylight
the reddening sun
setting inside the heart
reminds them to rest
and be thankful
rest
tomorrow is one more day
© BH, 2020
A week of poems… The suite, if such it is, runs: friday, thursday, wednesday, tuesday, monday, sunday, saturday. - week…
It ran backwards as time dos when remembered. This was the last. Felt the cold hand of fruitless toil take a grip of me. Those days are spent for me, thankfully, but their memory is there. Now, if my toil is fruitless, it’s a matter of choice.
The quotidien rolls on for most. The world, bemused, rolls beside. Human foibles a source of dismay to it now as they mount like silt and the humans in hot pursuit of so little labour in their vanity.
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